The Broken

Something is always broken.

Nothing is perfect longer than a day--every roof has a broken tile, every mouth a chipped tooth.

Something is always broken. But the world endures the break:

The broken twig is how we follow the trail. The broken promise is the one we remember...

Something is always broken. 

Something is always fixed.~Alberto Rios

I didn't like going to church when I was sixteen--wanted to sleep past noon and not bother to put on a dress. But my dad would gently shake my shoulder on Sunday mornings. "Come on, get up. Time for church. Don't be late." I could smell the sharp scent of Old Spice when he leaned over my pillow to wake me. He was already dressed in his dark suit, his tie neatly knotted at his neck. His pristine white shirt. I'd been in church since an infant, swaddled in a soft blanket and whisked to the nursery. And I was in the pew most Sundays since the cradle. I even went to church as a college student, when I didn't have to. When my dad wasn't there to rouse me from sleep. I'd walk to the nearby Presbyterian church, the older women making sure I always had some treat to take back to my dorm room. Those ladies hosted a party for me when I graduated four years later. I don't think I ever truly appreciated how kind they were. How merciful.

Yesterday I stood in church singng worship songs, surrounded by other believers, enfolded in God's grace. I thought about all the churches I've belonged to through the years. There was the season when I attended the Spanish-speaking church before my children were born. My late ex-husband was fluent in Spanish and wanted to practice his languaage. A beautiful congregation that invited us to countless authentic Mexican potlucks that filled my craving for spicy food and gracious fellowship. I lived in Hawaii for three months as a college student and attended a church where a lei was placed around one's neck when you entered the sanctuary. All through the service, I  smelled the scent of plumeria wafting through the sanctuary, the worship as sweet as the fragrance. I've attended numerous Bible churches in California, Oregon and Illinois. I met one of my best girlfriends at a church in Antioch, Illinois. I belonged to an Anglican church in South Carolina. I've been to numerous Christmas Eve Midnight Masses at St. John The Divine in Charleston. And there was the time I attended an Easter Mass in my husband's hometown in Cremona, Italy. I understood very little of the homily. But I knew the word "pace" when I shook the hands of other believers and felt the "peace" of Jesus transcending the language barrier.

I remember when I went back home for my dad's funeral-- held at that same church I attended as an adolescent. I recognized many of the faithful I knew at age sixteen. I didn't know how rich I was to belong to such a loving community. They were the ones who prayed for my dad, who made the casseroles and hugged me and my sisters close when our father passed away, their kind faces engraved upon my heart. 

This past week, Beni Johnson, co-pastor at Bethel Church in Redding, California passed away from a long battle with cancer. I've never attended that church, but I follow the ministry online and listen to her husband, Bill Johnson, preach weekly sermons. The Bethel ministry is one where they believe in God's healing miracles. And yet Beni wasn't healed this side of eternity. I wondered about Bill's response. I watched the church service just a few days after her death. The church was overflowing with worshippers. As Bill approached the podium, several in the congregation called out, "We love you, Bill." Bill, his voice choking with grief, responded, "I love you too, and am so grateful to be here, to feel your love." Perhaps this is the greatest "fix" of all when life gets so horribly difficult--when we don't have answers--experiencing the love of a church, the believers, Christ's body. When life gets broken, when things are hard, the body is Christ's hands and His feet, His voice. His love. His comfort expressed by the ones who pray, the ones who listen, the ones who mend. The worshippers. The lovers. The fixers. Helping when life fractures.